


Drawn to the Flame

by untune_the_sky



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Alternate Universe, Post-Hale Fire, Pre-Hale Fire, Precognition, Prophecy, Psychic AU, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Stiles Stilinski, Seeing the future, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, The Hale Fire, Vampires, Werewolves, Werewolves Are Not Known
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 04:43:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16803871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untune_the_sky/pseuds/untune_the_sky
Summary: Prophecies are just like science in one very particular way — they don't really count as prophecies unless you write them down.Or have them written down for you, at least, when you're too young to write in anything but Crayola.





	1. Prequel

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my writing folder for literally years. I've been struggling with a lot lately, RL's kinda the worst atm, so I'm trying to get myself back into writing in general. It's been a while. Sorry to anyone subscribed to this looking for new MCU work. I've got that, too, but I have to actually read through and edit it.
> 
> This is part of a series, but I'm sort of stuck on it, so any comments/suggestions would be appreciated. Hopefully this'll help me jumpstart my brain. 
> 
> Thanks for your patience as I get this thing hammered out.
> 
> Also, it's unbeta'd by anyone but me, so if you catch any horrifically glaring mistakes, please do let me know. :)

Prophecies are just like science in one very particular way — they don't really count _as_ prophecies unless you write them down.

Or have them written down for you, at least, when you're too young to write in anything but Crayola.

So technically, Stiles and Scott — the Stilinskis and the McCalls — aren't part of a prophecy. Neither are the Martins, the Argents, the Deatons, the Reyeses, the Boyds, the Laheys, the Yukimuras, the _Hales_... it's not for lack of foreknowledge, of course. Clairvoyants have been scattered throughout history, you couldn't take a step through a decade without smacking into one.

But, well.

Most of those with foresight, those who can pick at the strings of Fate before they're woven together indelibly… they die early for a reason. They die because they knew too much one time too often; because their friends and family thought they were mad or touched or possessed; because some of them _were_ mad or touched or possessed — there are many things that prey on those with powers and often-delicate minds.

Modern self-preservation dictates certain tactics for the utilization of premonitions.

Most of the time, that is to say: "Don't use this knowledge at all. And don't tell anybody about it, either."

So far as purposefully using your abilities, it's, "Don't _try_ to catch glimpses of potential futures, not ever. And don't do anything with any knowledge you accidentally acquire. And don't tell anybody about it, either."

In any case, rarely is it ever, "Yes, use this. Take it, learn it, encourage its growth. _Understand_ it so you can teach your descendants about it. But don't do anything else with it. And don't tell anybody about it, either — not until it won't cause you harm. Maybe write it down in code so no one will be able to diciper for a few hundred years."

That said, never has the rule ever been, "Take every bit of knowledge you can possibly gather about what's yet to come and do everything within your power to change the future you see."

"You'd think," Stiles mutters to himself as he trudges along the shoulder of the road, kicking at a rock every few steps. "You'd _think_ that that'd be the case more often. Y'know, instead of 'never.'"

But Stilinskis tend to play by a different set of rules, compared almost everybody else — in fact, they usually make up their own games entirely.

Scott's trailing him a little as he follows, hands sunk deep in the pockets of his jeans. "Huh?" He asks, quickening his pace just a little to catch up with his friend. "What?"

"Maybe," Stiles says, as though they've been having this conversation for hours. "Maybe it's cause — what good'll it really do you to know what the weather's gonna be like in two weeks when you'll probably get burned for being a witch or somethin' when it turns out you're right — right?"

"Right," Scott says, nodding.

"Not everybody sees the end of the world," Stile continues. "Probably, that's worse than the weather."

"Yeah."

It's not that he doesn't understand what Stiles is saying, because he does. It's just without context. But most of what Stiles says is without context and Stiles is almost always right, no matter what he's saying, so. Scott learned early on to go along with his friend's rambling and schemes — pretty much from the moment Stiles plopped down beside him on the time-out bench in kindergarten and said, "Wanna see somethin' cool?"

Because yeah, five year old Scott McCall never got to see anything cool. He got stuck on the bench at recess, and during PE, and any other time they went outside — ever — because his asthma always acted up no matter what. He'd figured _that_ out after the second week at school when he'd made _sure_ he was perfect all day leading up to recess, and Mrs. Sifrit _still_ sat him on the time out bench.

The cool thing Stiles showed him was a frog in his pocket, but it hopped out of his hand and smacked Scott in the face when he leaned down to get a better look. Stiles had laughed and reached out to wipe a smear of mud or frog juice or _muddy frog juice_ off Scott's forehead — a strange warmth had hit him then, but he was too young to realize it was strange.

"Ha!" Five year old Stiles had said, grinning. "Knewed it!"

They'd been inseparable ever since.

Stiles is a constant in Scott's life — he's been there through everything. The divorce was terrible, but at least it was over… and at least he'd had his best friend with him to make it not be so godawful.

So when Stiles slid off his bed, onto the floor face-first, and then stood up to say, "We gotta go see Doctor Deaton," whoever that was, Scott nodded, put his comic away in his backpack, and headed for the front door with him. They were nine, and there was nothing in Beacon Hills that could hurt them.

"It's just — there's so much _screamin'_ ," Stiles says, rubbing at his face as they continue walking down the side of the road.

"Who's screamin'?" Scott asks, a little distracted by a butterfly over on the other side of the ditch.

"Dunno, exactly," Stiles frowns. "But there's a lot of 'em."

"Why're they screamin'?"

"Cause they're gettin' hurt."

Alarmed, Scott takes a few more fast, hopping steps to catch up so they can walk beside each other again. "Why? Who's hurtin' 'em?"

"This blonde lady. She's laughin' at somebody — at all of 'em, maybe," Stiles murmurs. His eyes go a little distant as Scott watches. "She's pretty, though. She's pretty, but she's mean. And she's lightin' a match — just like how your dad used to… and then everybody's screamin'."

"Who is she?"

"Dunno."

"If you see her, will you know it's her?" Because Scott knew that sometimes the things Stiles knew weren't as clear as he wanted them to be.

"Yeah," Stiles says, nodding. He shakes his head like he's trying to knock something out of it, barely managing to jump over a pothole that hasn't been filled with gravel yet.

"Can we keep her from hurtin' 'em?" Scott asks, reaching over to tug Stiles so he's not walking so close to the road as the cars drive by.

"Dunno that, either," Stiles says, shaking his head again, though less vehemently.

"But we gotta try, right?"

Smiling at Scott, Stiles nods again. "Right, yeah. We gotta try. That's why we gotta see Doctor Deaton. He'll help. Maybe."

The problem winds up being that Dr. Deaton doesn't know either of them beyond reputation and, when they arrive at the animal clinic, he's just about to get into his car — he's busy. He has a very important meeting to go to.

Stiles can feel it in his bones, though. He can feel the certainty vibrate through him, in a way that few things ever have, that this is important — this is so, _so_ important. Everything that's always told him not to say a word about his feelings to anybody, not even his parents, falls away. Stiles _has_ to tell Dr. Deaton that a mean, blonde lady is going to light a match and start something terrible if they don't stop her. He has to tell the doctor that a lot of people are going to scream and scream and scream until there's no air left in their charred lungs for them to scream _with_.

He says it all as quick as he can.

Stiles _tries_ to get the message across as clearly as possible, but he's nine and this is important, so he talks far too fast. Dr. Deaton probably can't understand half the words that're coming out of his mouth — not even his _mom_ can understand him when he starts talking like this — and Stiles doesn't have any _names_ to give the doctor, he's never had to think about _names_ before.

Stiles can't tell him who needs to be saved.

"But," Stiles says, grasping at Dr. Deaton's sleeve. "But it's not even the screamin' ones who need the most help," he says, eyes beginning to water.

The doctor gives him a strange look.

"What do you mean, Mister Stilinski?"

"The ones left behind'll scream loudest. They'll scream _longest_. They'll hurt the most, more than _anybody_. And — "

Stiles is interrupted when the doctor's phone rings.

"I'm sorry, boys — this really is an emergency," Dr. Deaton says. Stiles knows it _is_ an emergency, but so is what he's trying to tell the doctor. No one's going to _die_ because of the other emergency. "Mister Stilinski, I'd like to speak with you at a later date. Do you think that'd be okay?"

"Dunno," Stiles whispers, releasing the older man's sleeve. He and Scott watch as the doctor gets into his car and drives away.

Scott steps up next to him and grips Stiles' hand in his. He doesn't care if people at school say they're too old for handholding now — he _doesn't_. Because Stiles is his best friend, and he's almost never seen Stiles cry — but he's crying now.

"Nothin's changed," Stiles says, words clogged with tears.

"Can we do somethin' else?"

"Nah, it's too late. It's all — it's all _set_."

Scott doesn't say anything else for a long time, just squeezes Stiles' hand. It's not until Mr. Stilinski pulls into the parking lot that either of them even notice it's starting to get dark.

"Boys," John says. "What're you doing here?"

Stiles' tears have cleared up, at least, and he's able to say, "We just wanted to talk to Doctor Deaton."

"About what?"

Stiles doesn't answer immediately, but his hand tightens in Scott's, so Scott blinks his wide eyes up at Mr. Stilinski and says, "Kittens!" He'd rather have a dog, but he knows Stiles has been trying to bargain with his parents for a tiny little floof of fur and razor sharp claws. The Stilinskis are standing their ground, though, and haven't agreed to even let him go into the animal clinic to _look_ at the kittens.

John just shakes his head and gestures to the back of his patrol car. "Et tu, Scotty — et tu?" Then he laughs and says, "C'mon, let's get the two of you back to the house for that sleepover. Claud's been looking up recipes for wuzetka all week just for tonight."

There's something a little off about the way Mr. Stilinski says that, but Stiles just nods and crawls into the backseat ahead of Scott. As soon as they're both seated and buckled in, Stiles reaches out and grips Scott's hand again, his little knuckles going faintly white.

They both know that Stiles' mom's been forgetting things lately. She keeps having to go to the hospital, and Scott's mom looks sad every time she comes to pick him up from after school on those days. Scott knows that Mrs. Stilinski's wuzetka is amazing and he's pretty sure she's never, not in the four whole years he's been Stiles' best friend, ever had to look a recipe up. She told him once that her mind was a rolodex of recipes — then she'd let him stir the sprinkles into the homemade funfetti cupcakes they were making as a surprise for Stiles' birthday.

Leaning over a bit, Scott wraps an arm around his friend's shoulders. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

"'S not your fault," Stiles whispers back.

"I know, but — "

Stiles pushes his shoulder into Scott's armpit to shush him and gives his head a slow shake. "Everyone'll be sad for a long time. But we can make it better later, if we try harder."

"Okay," Scott says. "Let me know when we gotta start tryin' again."

"I will."

The Hale family burns to death that night, all but three of the children and one of the uncles. Only no one knows that the third child fled to the southeast and the other two don't stick around long enough for anyone to really know what happens to them. Paperwork turns up in the county courthouse, complete with nearly illegible signatures transferring guardianship of the brother to the sister. The signatures all seem to be a mixture of strange letters and oddly antiquated swooshes, though no one remembers the paperwork being signed and witnessed, despite the notary stamps.

The uncle gets put in a long term care facility, and the two eldest surviving Hale siblings disappear — seemingly into thin air.

So, while none of them are _technically_ part of a prophecy, that's only because Stiles has never written it down. It's like a movie he plays on repeat through his mind, considering different actions and reactions, plucking at little things to change them gently so he can see what will ultimately give them all a happily ever after.

Stiles never actually talks to Dr. Deaton again about the blonde lady with the match. Despite the good doctor's attempts to question Stiles, the boy never seems to be available for or interested in speaking to him. They meet just once, right before Christmas that year, as Stiles is entering the animal clinic so he can look at the kittens in the back with his mom.

But Stiles loses all interest in floofs of fur with razor sharp claws when his mother is hospitalized. He knows what's coming, knows there's nothing he can do. She waits until after his birthday in April to die.

He doesn't know if that's supposed to mean something or not — Death isn't really black and white, after all. There are variables that go into everything in life. Those small choices here and there, inconsequential decisions that no one thinks about twice — those are sometimes the things that cause the biggest ripples in lives.

Mrs. Stilinski dies when Stiles is ten.

It's not until he's eighteen that any of the important things that he's seen in his head for years actually begin to matter again.

Because it's not until Stiles is eighteen that Laura and Derek Hale return to Beacon Hills, the possibility of actually _staying_ there solidifying into something that could become reality.

They stop at the diner for a late dinner, having barely been in town an hour. Stiles knows they're going to try to figure out what — who — is leaving the mutilated corpses of deer out on the Preserve. He also knows that it's their uncle, Peter, and that an ancient power will stir tonight — just long enough to make sure that Peter doesn't kill Laura. That ancient power will manage to contain Peter Hale, no matter what his deranged mind believes he's capable of.

Stiles knows a lot about what's going to happen after that, of course. He could claim, in fact, that he knows _everything_ that's going to happen after that.

But he won't.

Stiles will never be that arrogant. He knows that, no matter what he's seen, anything can shift — a word misspoken, a gesture seen when it shouldn't have been, an electrical glitch at a stoplight — and every vision he's ever watched play out in his head could be overwritten by something entirely new.

It's just a matter of keeping track of what's what, the major players and all their parts.

It's just a matter of making sure that no one else knows what he knows.

That's part of why he's never written it down. He doesn't want them to be part of a prophecy.

Stiles just wants everyone he cares about — everyone he'll _probably_ care about — to survive the future long enough to make it better than it is right now.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles knows it'll happen eventually — give or take a month or two, here and there — but he's not expecting it to happen when it does. He realizes as he sits up like Frankenstein's monster getting off the electrified operating table, that he's been kind of stupid for the past few weeks.

It's five days before the start of his sophomore year of high school, and he still has no idea what he's gonna get Lydia for her birthday — it has to be good enough to get her attention, but not so good that his dad puts serious thought into the possibility that he might be doing something illegal to afford it — so Stiles hasn't really been tweaking the threads around him as often as he should've been.

He doesn't notice how quickly the confluence of events is approaching.

Stiles only reaches out to tug on a string that might tell him whether the jewelry or the TV from Macy's will make Lydia happier. He isn't even _thinking_ about everything starting right _now_. So he's understandably surprised when, instead of a vague 'happy' or 'bored' feeling about the potential gift, he gets 'this future doesn't exist because you don't give her a gift this year.' It's followed up by that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that roils up every time his dad tells him to hurry up and stop wasting time.

Just because Stiles _can_ see the future doesn't mean he's constantly looking at it. It's all _sort of_ important — end of the world important, just like he told Scott when they were nine — but he's sixteen and playing at being in love. Well, at least, he _was_.

"Shit," he says.

"What?" Scott asks, hair flopping over his forehead a bit as he looks up.

"You remember the thing, right?"

He watches his friend process the question as he pushes his hair out of his face.

"The thing?" Scott asks.

"Yeah," Stiles says, nodding.

"The _thing_ thing?"

"The _thing_ thing," Stiles confirms.

Scott waggles his eyebrows significantly. " _That_ thing?"

"Yes, oh my God, _that_ thing! Do you remember it, or not?"

"Obviously, dude. What's up?"

Scott's the only person who actually knows that Stiles has more than just a knack for being in the right place at the right time — that Stiles doesn't just sit up reading random Wikipedia articles into the wee hours of the morning. While Stiles _does_ have a mind like a steel trap, he uses it for other things, accumulating a variety of knowledge through a variety of activities that sometimes involve cheating a little bit on tests.

He doesn't do it _often_.

In fact, the previous year, he sat Scott down, looked him in the eye, and straight up told him, "Scotty, you gotta actually pay attention in math this week. I swear to God, there are no Hail Marys on this, okay? Pay attention. I'll let you copy my notes so you can study at home. But if you don't understand this and ace this test, they're gonna make you do summer school or something. Or worse, they might just hold you back. And if they hold you back, you know I'm gonna have to bomb like _all_ my classes to get held back, too. I don't wanna do an extra year of school, Scotty. Pull it together."

Scott had pulled it together.

Stiles gives him a similar look now as he says, "It's time."

"Right now?"

"Yes," Stiles says.

"Okay," Scott says. "Okay, so what've we gotta do?"

"We gotta hit up the diner. I'll drive, you pay — promise, I'll order the least expensive thing on the menu."

Nodding, Scott pushes himself up off the floor and pats his pockets down. "You got my — "

"Yep," Stiles says, already sliding his feet into his sneakers by the door. Scott's inhaler's in the front pocket of his sweatshirt. "Gotcha covered."

"Sweet," Scott grins as he follows his friend downstairs and out to the Jeep.

It's a ten minute drive from Scott's to the diner, tops. They get there in eight, cause traffic's good, which makes Stiles feel a bit better about almost missing this. No one else is going to know what's going on. No one else is even going to appreciate what happens tonight — well, no one but Scott, and even Scott only knows what's going down in the foggiest of ways.

"Okay, we gotta get our booth," Stiles mutters as he parks and kills the engine. They slide out of the Jeep, doors slamming in unison like they've practiced the move a thousand times, before meeting at the front bumper and heading inside.

"Uh, Stiles?"

"Right, okay — new plan," Stiles mutters, waving to Diane and her sister Denise. They run the place like a well-oiled machine. It's great. All the orders come out on time and taste delicious — they even sub in heart-healthy stuff for the Sheriff when the Sheriff's not paying too much attention.

The problem Stiles is facing right now is that, despite the excellence of the establishment, the Hale siblings are currently sitting in the booth Stiles and Scott frequent when they're here.

"Um… over there?" Scott asks, pointing to the booth on the other side of the small walkway.

"I think this one's… probably good," Stiles says, angling for the one right in front of their usual. Derek Hale has his back facing the restaurant, which gives his sister the best view in the place — that's part of why Stiles always likes to sit there. He can see everything, and almost no one notices him watching. At least the booth they're sliding into will be close enough for him to listen to the conversation going on behind him.

He and Scott keep up a steady stream of banter, effortless and meaningless. They could chatter at one another like this for hours if they had to — they could do this in their _sleep_. Which means that Stiles only has to devote about one sixth of his brain to making sure his sentences are coherent and make sense as responses to whatever Scott's tossing his way. Another sixth is dedicated entirely to what's happening in the restaurant around them. The other two thirds are focused on the Hale siblings.

"Think we can make this a quick in and out?"

"No, I don't think we can make this a quick in and out," Laura says, keeping her voice low.

"It's not that I don't want to see her."

"I know."

Derek huffs. "She always gives me this _look_."

"Der, c'mon."

"No, seriously. Like, if she could pry open my skull and play around in my gray matter, she totally would."

"Ugh," Laura fake gags. "That's a surprisingly melodramatic and disgustingly vivid description from you."

"Whatever."

"Vigdis doesn't want to get into your head."

Snorting as he shifts in his seat, Derek mutters, "You don't know that."

"What's in there for her to want to see? Pastels and watercolors? Pretty, square houses all lined up in a row?" Laura's teasing — she has to be. Stiles knows that she knows Derek better than anybody else possibly could. Stiles has seen some of the things Derek could do with the things in his head, if he ever goes back to get his masters in architecture. Nothing about any of those potentials is boring like square, pastel rowhouses.

"Shut up, Laur," Derek says.

Stiles thinks maybe he can hear a smile in the other man's voice.

"Anyway, we're overdue for a visit," Laura murmurs. "It's been years."

"I know."

"We owe her a lot."

"I _know_."

"Okay," Laura says. "Just wanted to make sure you remembered."

"It's not like I could forget."

Their waitress arrives and drops off their food, then swings by Stiles and Scott's to check in and see if they want their usual. They do, which is good. It means neither Scott nor Stiles actually have to pay much attention to her when she's there, just mindlessly smile and nod. It also means that Stiles doesn't miss very much of the conversation going on behind him.

"We've gotta add our parts to the annals, anyway," Derek sighs.

"I know you're looking forward to _that_ ," Laura says.

"I'm really not."

"It's not like anybody'll be able to _see_ what you write in yours."

Stiles doesn't know if that's technically true or not. He's never been able to see much, so far as the Hales' associate is concerned. He knows that she helped get them out of Beacon Hills, but something's always kept him from knowing exactly what part she plays in their lives. He didn't even know her name until Laura said it.

Vigdis.

He'll have to look that up when he and Scott get back to his place.

Apparently whatever reply Derek gave his sister was non-verbal, because the next thing Stiles registers is what _has_ to be an under-the-table kick fight. He pauses in his almost nonsensical tirade about male circumcision, which accidentally draws attention to it when he picks it up after the quick sibling kickfest abruptly ends.

As he babbles, Stiles _knows_ that both of them are listening to him ramble, and he _knows_ he's using enough clinical language to make Scott's unsuccessfully smothered laughter realistic. It's just — well. Stiles has no real _opinion_ about it, per se. It's just a thing that caught his attention once and he actually researched it. Then he got confused for like three seconds and actually turned in a paper about it, which.

If only he'd handed it in to his History teacher, he probably could've gotten away with it.

"Do you think he's actually paying attention to what he's saying?" Derek whispers.

"I dunno," Laura whispers back. "It's like — "

"I don't even think — listen to his — "

"It's like the words are just falling out of his mouth," Laura says, her voice dropping even lower.

"His heartbeat's steady as a _rock_ ," Derek replies.

"Is he even — Derek, is he _right_ about any of this?"

"Sure," Derek says, and he has to be shrugging, based on the shifting of leather against vinyl.

"God, why couldn't _you_ ever pick interesting topics to write about?"

"I _did_ pick interesting topics," Derek mutters, voice rising a little with his indignation.

"Blech, you did _not_. _That's_ the kind of history you should've been picking up. Trivia you could just drop like a bomb at the dinner table."

"Think I can distract Vigdis with it?"

"Derek _Stephen_ Hale," Laura laughs aloud, the sound overwhelming the drone of Stiles' words.

"What? She could totally verify the accuracy of everything he's saying!"

It's not until Derek starts to laugh quietly along with his sister that Stiles registers something slightly unexpected. The heartbeat comment was obvious, but only because he _knows_ about the Hales. It's possibly ill-gotten knowledge, since he cheated, but _really_. He is who he is — and who he is… is someone with an insatiable sense of curiosity residing in his mind. So of _course_ he cheated. Just a little.

What Stiles _isn't_ expecting, though, is the way he can practically _see_ Derek's head tilt a little when Stiles realizes _he just made Derek Hale laugh_. Sort of. By accident. And he didn't even get to see him when he did it.

Luckily, that moment coincides with the _ding_ from the front of the restaurant that means someone just walked through the door.

"Who just walked in?" Derek asks.

"Um…" Laura pauses, obviously to look. "A girl. Red hair? Kinda short? _Has_ to be one of the mean girls in school, just based on how she's holding her purse."

"What's she doing?"

"Nothing? Why?"

"His heartbeat sped up when she walked in."

"Okay?" Laura says. Stiles wants to believe that her eyebrows are arched skeptically based on the way the last syllable rises at the end to make it into a mocking sort of question.

"Shut up," Derek mutters.

Stiles realizes he's not only stopped talking, he's stopped _breathing_ , when Scott kicks his shin.

"Dude," Scott says.

"What?" Stiles half-wheezes.

"You — did… aw, man. Really?"

"I can't _help_ it, Scott. Man, she's the most perfect woman…"

Sighing heavily, Scott drops his forehead onto the table in front of him and says, "Is he with her?"

"He's _always_ with her."

"Look away before he catches you staring and comes over to bash your face in," Scott advises.

" _Scotty_ ," Stiles whines.

"I'm not warning you again. You know what a jackass he is."

Sighing to himself, Stiles ducks his head and folds his forearms on the table so he can rest his chin on them. "Yeah," he mutters. Now that he's not distracted by the Hales noticing things they shouldn't about him at inopportune moments _or_ appreciating the perfection that is Lydia Martin, he has enough brains left to tune back into the siblings behind him.

Only…

The Hales aren't talking anymore.

They're probably communicating with their eyebrows again or something.

Their waitress turns up with Stiles and Scott's food. She gets the Hales refills on their drinks, and they both order dessert. Stiles is too busy communing with the bacon and cheese on his burger to pay attention to _what_ they order, though.

" _Dude_ ," Scott practically moans.

"What?" Stiles asks, mouth full.

"Did you hear — "

When Scott doesn't finish his sentence, Stiles asks, "Hear what?"

"They ordered pie, Stiles. _Peach pie_."

"Oh, shit."

"I _know_ ," Scott replies.

"Okay," Stiles swallows his food, takes a breath, and puts his burger down. He slowly raises his eyes so he can meet Scott's semi-resigned gaze. "Okay, we can do this."

"But _Stiles_."

"Scotty, you know what he'll do."

Wearing a truly hangdog expression, Scott nods. "He'll buy six. One to put in the freezer at the station. One in the fridge at the station. Two for the freezer in the garage at the house. One for the freezer _in_ the house. One for the fridge in the house."

"That's right."

"You'd think…"

"Right? After all these years…"

"He has to know."

"Of course he knows."

"Then why does he — "

"Because dad's probably been buying ten or twelve and we just haven't found out where he hides the rest of them," Stiles answers.

Sighing sadly, Scott asks, "How many are we buying tonight?"

"All of them."

" _All_ of them?" Scott asks, aghast.

"All of them," Stiles confirms.

"What're we even gonna do with that many pies?"

"Take 'em to the homeless shelter over on Fifth and Murdock," Stiles says.

Sadly, Scott asks again, "All of them?"

"Most of them. We're keeping one for ourselves," Stiles mutters.

"Because we're _earning_ that pie," Scott grimaces.

"Damn right we are."

They fistbump over the table to seal the deal.

When their waitress comes back to drop off the Hales' slices of peach pie, Stiles is surprised to find that they're buying a pie each to take home. Narrowing his eyes, he squints at Scott, who just shrugs and shoves some more curly fries into his mouth.

There are only four pies left to buy after that, since it's not like Diane and Denise expected such a run on whole pies. Still it's three for the homeless shelter and one for them, so Stiles won't complain.

It's not until he hears forks scraping against plates behind him that he realizes he hasn't heard the most important part of the Hales' conversation — and if he hasn't heard it, it hasn't taken place. That could mean one of several things, but the possibility that springs forward as the most likely is… that Stiles is going to have to do something heinously embarrassing to somehow trap the Hales in the booth behind him, then miraculously keep them there until they contact this Vigdis person.

Just as he starts to pump himself up for some epic public humiliation, he hears Derek ask, "So you're gonna call her?"

"Might as well. You know she probably already knows we're here."

"Probably," Derek agrees.

What follows is a rather odd conversation with a lot of greetings thrown around, several almost formal declarations of gladness at having returned to Beacon Hills, and then several exasperated sighs.

"Cousin Vigdis, you _really_ don't have to come out with us tonight," Laura says.

"She wants to come out with us tonight?" Derek hisses.

"Really, we'll be okay. I know it's been years since we were — yes, the Preserve will have changed — really?" Laura sounds almost indignant now.

"What?" Derek demands.

"Really, Vigdis? That's — you can't _blackmail_ me — oh my god, you're the _worst_. How are you this awful? Isn't it like — isn't it supposed to be constitutionally impossible for you to — _fine_ ," Laura huffs. "Fine, we'll… yes, we can meet you at your home before we begin searching."

Scott arches an eyebrow at Stiles, but Stiles just holds up a finger to wait and keeps chewing on his bendy straw.

"Dammit, Laur," Derek mutters.

"Shut it, baby bro."

"She's _blackmailing_ you?"

"Yeah, but not like — it's just…" Laura coughs quietly. "You don't need to know. It's not like, dangerous or mean or anything. Just… hellaciously embarrassing."

Derek is quiet for a long moment. "She threatened to tell me about something you did when we were little, didn't she."

"Yep."

"And you're gonna do whatever she asks or tells you to do to make sure she doesn't tell me."

"Yep."

"So we're meeting at her place, then checking out the Preserve."

"You're asking an awful lot of questions you already know the answers to," Laura sing-songs.

"I'm not asking questions. I'm making statements."

"The request for confirmation is heavily implied."

"I can't believe you sometimes."

"Yes, you can. You _totally_ can."

"Whatever." Derek pauses before continuing, "It still freaks me out, how I can't ever hear her side of the conversation from over here. It's _weird._ "

"I know. Cause I could hear her fine."

"Maybe it's a sound wave thing."

"Or maybe it's _magic_."

Snorting, Derek mutters, "I wanna hit the motel for a shower before we head over to Vigdis'."

"Works for me," Laura says, pushing herself up and out of the booth. "Let's blow this Popsicle stand."

The Hale siblings stand up and Stiles watches every move they make as they head for the front. They pay their bill, pick up their pies, and give Denise and Diane smiles before turning. The bell _dings_ when they open it, and Stiles doesn't mean to do it, but he also can't really help the way his eyes catch on Derek's before the other man lets the door swing closed behind him. Derek doesn't immediately follow his sister, so Stiles breaks the moment himself by jerking to face Scott and somehow communicating his desperate need for his friend to start rambling about something — _anything_.

Once the Hales have pulled out of the parking lot, Stiles exhales a huge breath he'd only been partially conscious of holding and slumps back against the booth.

"Jesus Christ."

"Did it work?"

Stiles takes a moment to check the possibilities threaded around them. "Yeah," he says, nodding. "Yeah, they're not going out there alone."

"That's _awesome_ , dude."

"It really, really is."

"Cause I _really_ didn't wanna have to like. Go stomping around the woods in the middle of the night."

"Me, neither," Stiles says, glad he can at least write _that_ potential future off. It would've turned out okay somewhere down the line, but it would've taken a _lot_ longer to get there… and a lot of people would've died before everything righted itself, before balance was properly restored.

"Let's pick up our pies, run by the shelter, and then go home. We've got a pie to eat before Dad gets home. And I know we've got some vanilla ice cream shoved in the back of the freezer where he thinks I can't see it," Stiles says.

Reaching across the table, Scott offers his fist for another bump. "But you can _totally_ see it."

Snorting a laugh, Stiles bumps Scott's fist back and says, "Because I'm not _blind_."

They follow through with their plan — the only thing that throws him a little is the woman at the homeless shelter's comment about other people dropping off peach pies. There's no indication that anything is amiss, but Stiles checks the threads around him almost obsessively that night as he and Scott eat their pie and finish off the ice cream while mainlining the second season of Supergirl on Netflix.

Before they pass out, Stiles checks one last time and finds that some potentials aren't just potentials any longer — they're set to become reality. Not everything, of course — nothing is ever _truly_ certain… but it's a good beginning, at least.


	3. Chapter 3

The reunion with Vigdis goes about as well as Derek expects it to — which is to say, she stares at him a bit, gives him a cryptic smile, hugs him to get her scent all over him, and then holds him at arm's length while she disparages the length of his hair. She thinks he should grow it out, but she's always thought that. He's not sure why, but she doesn't pester him about it incessantly, just makes the initial comment and then moves on to telling him he should be eating more.

Derek eats plenty.

He has no idea why Vigdis has obsessed over these things for over two decades — even his grandmother never nagged him quite like Vigdis. He supposes it could be because she's older than his grandmother, though you'd never know it to look at her. Hell, Vigdis is older than anyone else he knows or has ever known — _will ever know_ , but she rarely leaves her home. Derek's not sure what's got her so interested in their search tonight, but any help she can offer regarding whatever's mauling and mutilating animals on the Preserve would be great — he's got no desire to spend the _whole_ night outside padding through the once-familiar trees.

"Are we searching in a particular part of the forest? Using a grid pattern?" Derek asks.

"Start where it began," Vigdis says.

"So the location of the first deer carcass?" Laura suggests, already shedding her clothing.

"Hm…" Vigdis frowns. "Not that beginning."

Brows rising, Derek asks, "Which beginning, then?"

"Let's begin at the nursing home. It's been several months since I've visited with Peter. Laura, dear, put your shirt back on."

Derek's throat closes up. Laura visited Peter several times in the years immediately following the fire, but he's never been able to even drive by his uncle's long-term care facility while she was there. In fact, this is the first time he's been back here for longer than a few hours in the afternoon to visit the cemetery on the anniversary of the fire. He's not entirely sure he'll be able to handle actually being in the same building, let alone the same _room_ , as Peter.

And then Laura's there, flannel-clad arm hooked around his neck. "I can swing by there," she says. "You and Der can hike through the woods, if you want. Head for the… what is it, does it even count as a crime scene?"

"Technically," Vigdis says, eyebrows rising, "It's a declaration of war."

Waving her hand through the air, Laura shakes her head. "Probably just a sociopathic teenager or something."

"Laura Annice Hale," Vigdis says, tone flat. "Heed my words." Her voice deepens as her irises expand to take over the whites of her eyes. "Time twists. Repetition is inevitable." Her lips thin, turning down at the corners. "When your elder warns you of war, do not make light of the situation. Do you think I would call you home for a simple, human sociopath?"

A chill races down Derek's spine and his shoulders stiffen involuntarily.

"No, cousin," Laura answers, eyes wide.

"Then you have some sense."

Derek asks, "You know what's killing and mutilating the animals?"

Instead of answering, Vigdis pauses to allow her eyes to return to normal, then asks a question of her own. "What do you remember of the last Pack Summit?"

Laura's jaw tightens. "Enough." It's the same expression she wears any time she finds Derek staring at his wolf-blue eyes in the mirror for too long.

Vigdis' expression doesn't change.

"I was with mom for most of the initial meeting," Laura adds.

Fingernail tapping slowly against her lower lip, Vigdis nods. "Did you learn of the symbol Ennis clawed into the side of the building? The spiral."

"Mom told me about it."

"What did she tell you?"

Derek watches the back and forth like it's a tennis match.

"She said it signified revenge — that Ennis wanted revenge for his packmate's death."

"What do _you_ know of the symbol?" Vigdis turns toward Derek, one eyebrow quirked upward.

Frowning, Derek asks, "Historically? Symbolically? Artistically? What kind of information are you after?"

"Any of it. _All_ of it. Tell me what you _know_."

"It depends on the school of thought you're looking at — or the perspective you're looking _from_ ," he says with shrug. "It's the Golden Ratio, the basis of the World Pantheist Movement, maybe even the sun itself. Spirals are ancient, classical, post-classical, modern, contemporary. They span all cultures and all continents. Continuity, bravery, interconnectedness — but usually the cyclical nature of things _like_ revenge. Repetition, I guess — like what you were saying about history. Those who don't learn from it are doomed to repeat it. That kind of thing."

"Very good. And what does the triskelion on your back mean to you, Derek?"

He hesitates. It's not that he doesn't have an answer, it's more that he doesn't want to give it to her in that moment. Still, she's his elder — by millennia, allegedly — and he owes her more than he'll ever be able to repay…

Plus, she's family.

"Everything," he says. "Birth, life, death. Alpha, beta, omega. Love, hate, apathy. Feedback, connection, dissociation. It… it means that anything, at any point, can move from one spiral to another. Mostly, it just… it's there to make sure that I never forget the consequences of my actions and how terrible an impact willful ignorance can have. To make sure I don't make the same mistake twice," he says. Derek wants to fidget, wants to raise his hand to rub at his face or the back of his neck, scrub his palms through his hair, but he doesn't.

"The animal mutilations are targeted very specifically at the two of you… precisely _because_ of everything Derek has just said regarding symbolism and what the triskelion means to _him_ in particular. Not to mention, of course, that it's the main feature of the family crest," Vigdis says, turning in a slow circle.

"But how's that a declaration of war?" Laura asks.

"I'd understand if it was the triskelion," Derek says. "But just the spiral?"

"One of three options," Vigdis explains. "Short-sighted. Incomplete. Revenge without satisfaction, without knowledge or context of the situation for which they seek revenge. Repetition for repetition's sake. Purposelessness. _Mindlessness_."

"And you think that has something to do with Peter?" Laura asks.

"I know it does," Vigdis replies.

"Is he a target?" Derek asks. It would be easy to take him out, one of the few remaining Hales — especially given Peter's condition.

"I think he is something else." Turning to face them again, Vigdis shakes her head. "Enough questions. Go now." Without another word, she disappears entirely.

"Okay," Laura says. "Back to the car we go."

Derek waits until she's dragging him toward her Camero before he ducks out from under her arm. "Is it just me," he asks, finally able to rub the heels of his palms over his scalp, "Or does she do that purely for dramatic effect?"

"Dunno," Laura says, shrugging. "I tried to get you out of this."

"I know. Thanks for trying, at least."

"No problem," Laura says, smirking as she slides into the driver's seat and turns the key in the ignition.

"What's it like, at the facility?"

"You really wanna talk about that now?"

"Knowledge is power," Derek mutters.

"What if I distract you, instead?"

Casting his eyes to the side, Derek squints at his sister. "Distract me how?"

"Talk to me about Pie-Guy."

" _That's_ the nickname you're going with?"

"He bought a _bajillion_ pies!"

"Apparently so his father wouldn't," Derek says, snorting.

"Depriving family of delicious pie — obviously he's evil."

Rolling his eyes as he presses back against the headrest, Derek says, "He's not _evil_."

"Oh, playing his white knight, are you?" Laura's eyebrow waggle is epic as they pull off the mostly hidden path to Vigdis' home and onto the main road into town.

"Hardly."

"You seemed awfully interested in that redhead who walked in."

"Pie-Guy's pulse shot off the chart," Derek says, rolling his skull against the headrest so he could look out the window.

"Cause he was _jealous_."

Streetlights flash past, starkly illuminating his reflection before fading just as abruptly as it appears — cyclical. Why is everything coming back to cycles and repetition?

Well, maybe not everything.

Pie-Guy and his friend seemed pretty unique, all things considered. There'd been a lot of information to take in at the diner. The rambling banter between the two of them indicated they were friends — that they'd been friends for a very long time. It wasn't the circumcision paper that'd really caught his attention, though.

No, what'd held him rapt was the _scent_ coming from him. Derek could feel every shift the kid behind him made through their connected seats and, while that'd been distracting, the smell alone would've had him doing a metaphorical double-take. He can't even figure out what about the scent intrigued him, but that's something else entirely.

Scent doesn't work like taste. It's not easy to identify specific elements of it. Sure, someone can smell like oranges because they ate one for breakfast, or spearmint because they brushed their teeth, but those scents don't linger. They're not ingrained in a person's cells… and describing the things that _are_ ingrained is virtually impossible.

A home can smell like _things_ — wood and oil, leather and wool, dried leaves and sticks. It can smell like _people_ — family and friends, visitors and pets. It's a little different in every place, on everyone, in every situation — hormones, pheromones, the temperature or humidity of the air, the season.

Laura smells like home to Derek. It's a strange blend of familiarity and a cozy warmth, like he could curl up beside her and sleep no matter what. It's a scent that hits his hindbrain and assures him that he's safe with her. She'll protect him.

Oddly enough — or maybe not — Vigdis has that same underlying scent that signals 'safe' and 'protection' to Derek, but she's also cooler in a way that means 'distance' and 'age.' There's the underlying familial tinge to both her scent and Laura's, a likeness of blood that's been passed down through generations, but Vigdis' is so far removed that it's like dry ice.

Pie-Guy's is in a whole different ballpark, metaphorically. Derek wishes he could've gotten a better look at him. All he'd really caught as he left the diner was dark hair and brown eyes, an upturned nose and cheekbones that he wanted to run his thumbs across. Pie-Guy's scent had been hotter than Laura's, like desert wind coming through a car window at 100 MPH. It was laced with something sharp, almost knife-like, but bright and strong enough to tie someone up in knots if he wanted to put in the effort. There'd been a faint sort of wistfulness about it — potential, maybe.

Derek had let himself get wrapped up in it, let it creep over his shoulders and down his arms. He gets goosebumps now, thinking about it — that almost physical sensation of heat sliding around him, burrowing in at the base of his skull and the hollow of his throat in an effort to hold him hostage. It's the sort of scent that he thinks he could lose himself in while trying to sort out all the nuances.

"Okay, please tell me it's not Pie-Guy's accelerated pulse that's got you smelling all contemplative and vaguely maudlin," Laura says, signalling for the first turn into town.

The facility Peter's in is on the opposite side, but with the way his sister drives, Derek figures they'll get there in less than twenty minutes. Vigdis is no doubt already waiting for them.

"Hm?" Glancing toward Laura, Derek shakes his head. "Nah. Well, not directly. Did you get anything from his scent? Anything kinda weird?"

Laura frowns. "I wasn't paying that much attention to it, but he didn't smell off or diseased or anything. Why?"

"Dunno," Derek says. "Just thinking about it."

"That sounds sorta ominous, Der."

"Ominous? Why?"

"You're all… I don't know. Is this actually about Pie-Guy? Or is this about you having to see Peter for the first time since the fire?"

"Probably a bit of both."

"That's remarkably not helpful in the conversational department."

"It's not my job to be helpful. You're prying."

"It _is_ my job to pry, though. C'mon, spill your guts. Let LoLo take a look and then shove them all back in the way they ought to be."

Rolling his eyes, Derek shakes his head again. "There's nothing to spill. You already know about Peter. That's just… y'know. That's unmitigated guilt. It's not gonna go away."

"It _should_."

"No, it shouldn't."

"Why?"

"You _know_ why, Laur," Derek says, voice soft. He turns his eyes back out to the sidewalk as street signs begin to flash by.

And she does know — it took him years to work up to it, but Laura knows the full story of what happened with Kate. She knows that it's his fault their family died, that Peter's in the long-term care facility. She knows all the nitty, gritty details. He doesn't understand why she continues to insist that nothing was his fault.

"That's that _bitch's_ fault," Laura half-hisses. Derek imagines he can hear her teeth grinding together, her jaw's clenched so tightly.

"We're gonna have to agree to disagree. Again."

The steering wheel creaks a bit beneath her hands. "I _hate_ that you refuse to believe me."

Exhaling slowly through his nose, Derek closes his eyes briefly. The brights of an approaching car light up the backsides of his eyelids, turning everything a brilliant, bloody red before abruptly fading to black once the car's sped past them.

Once it becomes obvious that he's not going to continue along that particular topic, Laura huffs out a breath of her own and says, "Anyway, no. Pie-Guy smelled like a typical teenager to me. Maybe…" She pauses, mouth twisting. "Maybe a little electric? Like… oh — sort of like how Pop Rocks feel? A little fizzy. Like, if there wasn't anything else to him, he'd make me sneeze."

"What mitigated the sneeze inducing, fizzy scent?"

"He seemed tired? And then there was the worry — chemo signals, y'know? A little bitter? You have to've gotten all this, yourself."

"I didn't get the bitterness. It was more like… I don't know, how it feels when you run your finger along a knife blade and you're not sure if you pressed down too hard — whether you're gonna bleed or not. Kinda like that. Slick-sharp." Derek's hesitant to mention the desert-hot, windblown feel he got. He doesn't know what it means, not really. The more he mulls over Pie-Guy's scent, the more he wants to get another whiff of him, all up close and personal.

Pulling to a stop at a light, the red illuminating Laura's silver-green eyes, making it seem almost like she's flashing them at him as she looks at him with her eyebrows raised. "That's some pretty in depth analysis of a stranger's scent, Der."

Derek wrinkles his nose at her. "It's just a scent, Laur."

They're silent as she pulls forward, then takes another turn. He didn't lie to her, but he didn't tell her precisely the truth, either. He wonders if she'll call him on it.

"You wanna smell him again?"

He _wishes_ he could lie about that, but it's extra useless now that she's asked him a direct question. Not only does she know him well enough to catch all his tells, but she'd hear his heartbeat skip, anyway.

"Yeah."

"Once we've figured all this stuff out with the animal corpses, I'll help you stalk him," she says, grinning.

"We are _not_ stalking him!"

"What? Why not?"

"That is _creepy_ , Laura."

"It could be romantic!"

"It's also probably _highly_ illegal. He looked like he was twelve."

"Oh my _God_ ," Laura says, taking her hands off the wheel to mime strangling him. "You are _ridiculous_."

" _You're_ the one suggesting we stalk a probable-minor."

"You're the one that likes how he smells!"

"Oh look!" Derek says, sitting forward.

"What?"

Reaching for his door handle, Derek mutters, "A chance to escape this conversation."

Faster than he can pull the handle, Laura smashes the 'parental lock' button on her side of the car.

Flopping back in his seat, Derek groans. "Stop trying to boss me around and give me advice. Let's just get things here figured out — and then we can go _home_."

"Home — to New York."

Derek's not sure what to make of Laura's tone, but he says, "Yeah. Home to New York."

"You really wanna go back?"

"All our stuff's there, Laur. Plus your job. _My_ job."

"It's just — I don't know. It doesn't _feel_ like home. It never really has."

He's quiet for several long minutes, letting the silence lengthen and linger. Derek can see the crease between his eyebrows in his reflection, knows he's practically glaring at the passing buildings like they've personally offended him, but he can't help himself. "You don't want to go back."

"I — no. Y'know what?" She purses her lips, then finishes, "No. I don't wanna go back to New York."

Derek's lips thin. He already knows the answer to the question he's about to ask, but he lets it loose anyway. "Where do you wanna go?"

"I think… I think I'd like to stay here."

" _Here_?" Derek can't help the way his voice goes rough, the way his eyes flash metallic blue at Laura as he jolts upright in his seat.

" _Yes_ , here. This is _home_ , Derek. It's in the air, in the _land_."

"This is where our entire family _died_ , Laura. You can't expect me to stay!"

"We can start over, Der — think about it. You can — "

"No."

"There are _options_ here — it's not just living in a half-rotted, fire-damaged shell of a house. We could rebuild! Fuck it, we could buy something in town. You could have a place of your own!"

" _No_ , Laura."

"Derek — "

"I don't want to talk about this anymore."

She growls softly, but stops pushing the issue. Derek knows it'll come up again — Laura never lets anything go, especially not when she thinks she's right… or that it's for his own good. But at least for the moment she's decided to keep her mouth shut. Sort of.

A frisson of irritation shoots through her scent, sour and a distinctly unpleasant. "Fine," she mutters.

"Fine."

They make the rest of the drive to the facility in silence, the air in the car growing heavier with disappointment and frustration.

Derek's out of the Camaro before Laura even puts it into park, walking up to Vigdis and then standing in front of her with his hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket. She just raises her eyebrows at him before turning to watch Laura's approach.

The car beeps after Laura locks it, then makes her way toward them while tucking her keys into her jeans' pocket.

"Shall we?" Vigdis asks.

"Sure," Laura says.

Derek just nods. He can feel a tension headache clawing its way up the back of his neck in an effort to latch onto him, dig into the muscles behind his eyes. He hates arguing with Laura, but he can't picture himself staying here — not in this town, where everyone knows _of_ them and the great tragedy their lives became.

Vigdis leads the way into the long-term care facility. She bypasses the nurse's station with barely a glance, heading directly down a hallway to their right. Derek doesn't know if she's just that well known here or if she did something to the nurses to make sure they'd go unnoticed, but he's too busy keeping pace behind her to worry about it. 

They take several turns that ultimately lead them to a hallway barely lit by dimmed fluorescent bulbs overhead. Moonlight spills through an uncurtained window at the end. Vigdis stops well before they reach it, though, at one of the few doors.

"The family's paid well for Peter's upkeep," Vigdis murmurs, brushing her fingertips over the solid wood panels.

Looking at her askance, Derek says, "That's — " But he can't make himself continue, because of course they have. Cracking his neck in an attempt to relieve some of the tension, he just shakes his head. "Nevermind."

Laura twists the handle and pushes the door open.

Vigdis enters first.

Despite his enhanced eyesight, his night vision, Derek can't actually make out what happens next. One moment Vigdis is standing in the doorway and the next she has Peter held up against the opposite wall of the room, fingernails digging into his throat.

He can tell by Laura's sharp inhale that she didn't catch the action, either. "Cousin?" She asks.

But Derek's attention is caught by his uncle — his uncle who is not, in fact, comatose. Instead, he writhes against the wall, feet just far enough from the floor to keep him from gaining any leverage to use against Vigdis.

"Uncle Peter?"

The man stops struggling, glowing blue eyes meeting Derek's over their cousin's shoulder.

"Nephew," Peter says, half of his face still brutally scarred. It turns the smile he offers into a terrifying, rictus grin. "It took me _ages_ , but I figured it out. Do they know?"

"Know what?" Derek asks, blinking slowly. He wonders if this is supposed to be some sort of surprise.

"That you killed our family?"

A low growl starts up in Laura's chest, deepening and lengthening until Derek can feel the reverberation in his own diaphragm.

"Oh, didn't she know?" Peter asks, expression almost manic with glee.

"Vigdis, explain this. Please," Laura says, barely remembering to make it a request.

"What's there to explain, LoLo?" Peter sing-songs. "Derek gave all our secrets to an Argent. It's why everyone else is dead."


End file.
